


As Sharp As Any Sword

by LuckyDiceKirby



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, feelings? what are feelings?, forest party (tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10799430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyDiceKirby/pseuds/LuckyDiceKirby
Summary: On the way to the tower, Adaire meddles, Hella complains, and neither of them admit to anything.





	As Sharp As Any Sword

Hella's skin itches.

It's always like this, these days. Nothing makes sense, and they can't even count on the sun. Strangeness has taken root in Hella's blood, inescapable, crawling up her throat. She hates it.

Adaire won't give her any more paper to rip up--apparently it's a valuable resource, and Hella was wasting it. She offered Hella a coil of yarn instead, and so now at nights Hella sits by the fire, winding and unwinding it around her wrist, tying knots. Trying to get some of the excess energy out when her muscles are too sore to swing a sword at any more trees.

They're only a few days out of Rosemerrow, a single moon bright in the sky. She could argue with Hadrian some more, but that just gets her more wound up, and Throndir has disappeared to talk about something with Alyosha. He's been nervous lately, shying away from Hella when he used to crowd her. Something's up. Hella hopes she doesn't have to care about it.

It's only her and Adaire by the fire, Adaire poking it every so often with a stick while Hella ties knots.

"I could teach you to do something with that," Adaire says. "Knitting, or crochet. I haven't got any needles, but it's not like we're at a loss for wood around here." She gestures at the forest around her. It's a sweeping motion, but a controlled one too. That's how Hella's had Adaire pegged for a while now: grandiose when it gets her something, and silent and calculating when it won't. She prefers Adaire's form of drama to the rest of the group's, honestly. The routine they'd pulled on Saul had been fun. 

"No," Hella says. She starts pulling apart the knot she'd just tied. "I just need something to keep my hands busy."

"Yeah, but you could be keeping your hands busy and actually get something out of it for your trouble."

There was a seamstress who lived in the town where Hella grew up, a young woman with dark eyes and a perpetual tilt to her smile. She'd give Hella cups of tea sometimes, when she came to get her clothes mended. Hella came there often--she was forever finding new and inventive ways to ruin her clothes. Her mother hardly bothered to scold her for it; and why should she? Hella's strength was going to get her places. It was going to bring glory to the family name.

The seamstress used to shake her head over Hella's trousers. Hella wondered if she should feel bad.

"Oh, don't bother," the seamstress said. She liked to smoke clove cigarettes, and they left her voice raspy. Years later, Hella can still recall the way they smelled. "It's only cloth. It's my job to fix it, see? And it's your job to rip it again. And the world keeps going on as it should."

Hella only ever nodded and drank her tea. Even then, she never knew the right thing to say.

She doesn't tell Adaire this story. "I don't need more scarves," she says instead. She has one wrapped around her neck; Adaire had handed it to her before they left Rosemerrow. Hella hadn't thought much about where she'd gotten it. It only now occurs to her that Adaire might have made it. 

"You could give them away," Adaire says. "Or sell them. Or unravel them and start again, I don't care. It helps pass the time."

"I don't need any help to pass the time." 

"Yeah, everything's so exciting out here. You're literally tying knots for fun." 

Hella puts the yarn down and stands up. "I'm going to go train some more."

Adaire snorts. "Sure."

In the morning, Hella's shoulders are sore, and her mind still feels unstill. But she's getting a bit more heft to her swing. It'll come in handy when the time comes.

-

It's not a very serious fight. Not that Adaire is the expert of judging fights. She prefers to avoid them when she can--not that she can't _fight_ , but it's usually not the most profitable option. But Hella seems almost disappointed by its conclusion, as she pulls her sword from the gut of a particularly unwise bandit.

He deserves his fate, is what Adaire figures; he tried to rob a group of people that included _Hella_ , who has never been anything less than visibly terrifying.

She still sustained a pretty nasty scratch across her upper arm, and she keeps shrugging off Adaire's efforts to patch it up.

"It's going to get infected," Adaire says, for at least the fifth time. "And we're all going to be sad if your sword arm falls off." 

"I'm fine," Hella say, continuing to sharpen her sword like she isn't currently bleeding. She wrapped a rag around the wound just after the fighting finished, while they were still checking for more bandits, and Adaire can see that blood is starting to leak through the makeshift bandage.

Adaire knows better than to try to physically take Hella's sword from her--aside from all the other obvious flaws in that plan, it might start _talking_ \--and she doesn't want to deal with what going to get Hadrian would entail. Instead, she gets her supplies and sits down just in the edge of Hella's peripheral vision, and she waits.

It only takes Hella about ten minutes to get antsy. She glares at Adaire and sheathes her sword before stalking over. Silently, she sits down on the log Adaire has set up camp on.

"Fine," she says shortly. "Be quick about it, okay?"

Adaire is. She cleans up the scratch, and Hella doesn't wince even once. She obligingly lifts her arm so that Adaire can bandage the wound, lips thin.

"You know," Adaire says, "for a fighter, you can be kind of reckless with your wellbeing." 

Hella rolls her eyes. "I train," she says. "I get good armor, and I sharpen my sword. I can take care of myself, Adaire. I know what I need."

Adaire fights the urge to roll her eyes. She ties off the bandage with a little more force than necessary, and tries another tack. "You're making Hadrian worry about you."

"Haven't you realized that Hadrian is going to worry about me no matter what I do?"

"You have a point." Adaire pats Hella's forearm. "You're good for now. Let me change the bandage for you tomorrow, and you'll be all set."

Hella gives her a mutinous look.

There are probably easier ways to make herself useful, but Adaire is finding that she's enjoying herself with this one. "I wasn't kidding about infection! Consider it a favor to me, okay?"

"Don't think I won't call it in," Hella warns her.

"I would expect nothing less." Adaire leaves Hella to squint down at her bandage. There are still a few bodies left to search.

\- 

They make it to Wharfhurst at what is probably around midmorning, judging by how long it's been since the moon set. Apparently, Adaire figured out how to keep time by the moons. Hella hasn't bothered to learn, and according to Hadrian, the sun is going to be back soon enough.

She doesn't believe him, but she doesn't _disbelieve_ him either. Both outcomes seem equally likely. 

They stop to resupply. Hella takes the opportunity to break away from the group as soon as she can so that she can find the best bakery in town. That turns out to be pretty easy, since there's only one of them. Adaire finds her while she's scrutinizing several different types of bread. 

"I can get that for you," she says, leaning in to sniff a loaf of rye. "I owe you for helping me brew that sleeping draught back in Rosemerrow."

"'Sleeping draught'?"

"That's what it said on the label, isn't it?" 

The owner of the bakery clears his throat. He's scared of Hella. 

Adaire turns to him and flashes him a bright and entirely fake smile. "Mr. Waxfeather, right? I met your sister in Rosemerrow, and she told me I absolutely had to stop by and try a slice of your blueberry cake." 

Within a few minutes, most of which Hella spends watching Adaire in a whirlwind of activity, they're both settled in a corner eating slices of blueberry cake. Hella's pack is full of several loaves of Dwarven bread that Adaire acquired at a serious discount, thanks to her apparent acquaintance with Waxfeather's sister and sister-in-law.

"Do you actually know that guy's family?" Hella asks in an undertone.

"Sure," Adaire says. "We're old friends since two weeks ago. They run a shipping business out of Rosemerrow. I arranged for them to get a bit of a boost in business after the whole debacle with Saul."

"Right." The cake is good. Blueberries don't grow in Ordenna, but she used to get blueberry pancakes back when she was staying in Velas. And Fantasmo had been particular about his blueberry scones, once or twice demanding that Fisher Lacey bring him a fresh one if the first wasn't up to his standards.

If her face is doing anything funny, Adaire is agreeable enough to ignore it. "So what's on the docket for the rest of the day? Hadrian and Throndir are out looking at arrows, last I heard."

"Well, I'm all set for rations now. I was going to go looking for a kettle. I haven't had proper tea in awhile. I never got a chance to get one in Rosemerrow."

Adaire stares at her. "What, like a teakettle?"

"Yeah."

"Hella Varal, Queenkiller, needs a fancy kettle for her tea?"

Hella shrugs. "I like tea. I have a good hot chocolate recipe, too. It's good with boiled milk."

"Hella Varal has a _favorite hot chocolate recipe_?" Adaire is laughing openly now, head thrown back. 

"What?" Hella fidgets. She wishes she had some of that yarn. "I like what I like."

"Oh, sure. Why not. We're going on a dangerous mission and we might all die. That is, if the world doesn't end first. Let's go buy a kettle." Adaire stands up and wipes her hands on her skirt.

Hella stands too. "One of your braids is coming unpinned," she says. She reaches up to fix it, batting Adaire's hands away when she tries to do it herself. 

Adaire looks down and fixes her skirt again. "I think I know just the place to go," she says. 

Hella smiles. "That's what you're here for, right?"

"Yup," Adaire says, stretching her arms above her head. "That's what they say about me. I should know, I pay to get the rumors spread. Adaire Ducarte: she always knows where she's going."

-

After they buy Hella a kettle--a goddamn _kettle_ \--Adaire picks up her post and settles in to read it at the inn, chewing on a fresh bun as she does. She admires Hella for her practicality, but it's reassuring to see her be frivolous about something. Kettles and bread. 

It's good to know people's weaknesses. Bread's a new one, though.

Hella is reading Blake's letter over Adaire's shoulder, and she seems to think she's being sneaky about it.

It's almost cute. 

"You know, you could just ask," Adaire says, not looking up. Hella snorts, and comes around to sit down across the table from Adaire. 

"Would you tell me the truth?"

Adaire runs her hand along the page. She's read it three times. It doesn't really say much of anything at all. "It's my letter. If I tried to read _your_ mail I'd start fearing for my life."

Hella shrugs. "I don't get much mail these days," she says. "I don't tend to make a lot of friends."

"My friends usually don't write letters." Blake hadn't really seemed the type, either. But it's nice to know that they got out alright. That all of Adaire's effort wasn't wasted. 

"So," Hella says. She shifts in her seat. "You and Blake?" 

Adaire folds up the letter. "Nah," she says. "People like us--it wouldn't be a good idea. And anyway, they're on the run now, and--no." She tucks the letter away. "We had a beer together. It was fine. I'm glad they're okay."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't 'uh-huh' me," Adaire says. "Bromley's a catch. If I was with them I'd be bragging about it, don't worry."

"Okay. I'll be sure to keep in mind that you kiss and tell," Hella says. Her smile is edging into a smirk. The annoying thing is that it really works for her.

"Hey, you know what they say about two people keeping secrets. Privacy is overrated."

"Sure," Hella says, very seriously. "What was your real name again?"

Adaire throws the bun at her head. 

-

Adaire is being inquisitive today. They're spending one last night in Wharfhurst, and she keeps buying Hella beer and asking invasive questions.

"Seriously," Adaire is saying, "what was the deal with that Fantasmo guy, anyway?"

"Don't ask me," Hella says. "Hadrian traveled with him for a lot longer, and he was there when he--whatever it is that happened to him. I don't know. He seemed real enough to me." Realness is a lot harder to discern than it used to be, though. Hella takes a long drink of her beer. 

"Eh," Adaire says. "You're much more fun to talk to."

"I think you're the first person who's ever said that to me."

Adaire grins at her, elbow on the bar and head leaning on her hand. "Your stories are way better than Hadrian's. Hadrian's all, this happened and this is why it was bad or good or whatever. You just tell it how it was."

"All the better for you to embellish it later?"

Adaire just laughs, and takes another drink. "So what about Nacre?"

The brightness of the evening fades a little. She cut her way out of Nacre, and she still can't ever leave. Typical. "I don't want to talk about Nacre."

"Lem and Fero aren't here, so you're the only option, Queenkiller. Come on. Don't you want to brag?"

Hella puts her drink down harder than she means to. Some of her beer sloshes from the side onto the bar. "I said I don't want to talk about it."

"Aw, come on. It can't have been that bad. You guys all lived, didn't you?"

If someone has to know about everything that happened in Nacre, it might as well be Adaire. She won't get all weird about it like Hadrian would, or pity her like Throndir. 

"No. You don't understand," Hella says. Her mouth feels as if it's moving of its own volition. It's awful: Hella prides herself on the ability to master her own body, the one thing she can always control. It's possible she's had too much beer. "I did something fucked up, in Nacre. I--I died, and I made a deal, and then I killed my friend. I came all that way to that shitty town to save him and then I killed him instead. Because I said I would. And I didn't want to die. And it--it was easy. I think there's something wrong with me. In Ordenna, they told us how hard killing was. What a burden it could be. But it's not. It's always so easy." Her throat hurts. Adaire's face is impassive and assessing. 

"Calhoun, right? Fero told me a bit about him, while we were in Rosemerrow. He said you were acquitted."

"Yeah." Hella laughs. It sounds like the scrape of her sword across a whetstone, sharp and grating. She can hear its smooth echo in her head. "I strangled him three times, and his sister Adelaide let me go. And I killed her too. And then the city fell apart. Nacre's such a shithole." Hella crosses her arms on the table "And even though she's dead she's stuck in my head. She won't leave me alone. Her instead of him, because of course it wouldn't be the one I actually liked." 

_Bad luck_ , Adelaide observes, at the edge of Hella's hearing. Hella buries her face in her arms.

"Look, Hella. If you want someone to tell you that you did the right thing, talk to Hadrian. I don't know if you did the right thing. But you and I aren't like Hadrian, you know? Sometimes you just have to do your work and survive, no matter what it takes. Sometimes people get hurt. It sucks. A lot of things suck. But it's not like you can take it back, right? So it's fine. You have to make it fine."

"What are you talking about? I can't just _make it be okay_." You can't bring the dead back, except for when you can. And Hella wouldn't want to bring Calhoun back, not really. It would be wrong, grotesque, unnatural. 

Hella doesn't know what she _does_ want, though. For them to have taken the overland route. To have never been to Nacre at all. 

Something tells her that was never really possible. Hella hates thinking that maybe her path has always already been set.

"Sure. Maybe it won't ever be okay. But it's in the past, and sometimes the best thing to do with the past is to leave it behind. Take the lessons you can learn and dump the rest." Adaire shifts, the candlelight from the table flickering across her face. "I of all people should know. My record's not exactly spotless."

Hella closes her eyes against a sudden heat. "I don't even care if I messed up. Bad shit happens all the time, it shouldn't matter if I add more to it, I just--I miss him. He was so easy to talk to. And it's my fault he's gone. It's stupid." 

Adaire's hand is warm against Hella's back.

"He would've liked you," Hella says. "He was full of shit too. And he knew how to throw a party."

"Sounds like a man after my own heart." Adaire waves over the bartender. When they get their new drinks, she raises hers. "To leaving the past behind us."

Hella knocks her glass against Adaire's and throws it back. "Yeah. I'll drink to that."

-

The next fight is a lot worse. They're set upon just after they leave Wharfhurst. Adaire assumes they're just run of the mill bandits, but Hadrian recognizes their insignia. Cult of the Dark Sun. Of course.

"I didn't realize cults had such good training regimens," Adaire shouts to Hella, who seems to be holding her own. Adaire is perched on a low tree branch and making good use of her throwing daggers. Throndir has a decent position about ten feet away, and Hadrian is taking on three people at once, a shallow cut on his forehead bleeding sluggishly.

Alyosha is nearby, murmuring either a prayer or a spell. For his sake, Adaire hopes it's the latter. All in all, things could be going better.

Hella doesn't reply. She cleanly beheads a man in a cloak, and whirls around to face a woman dual wielding daggers. 

It's a poor choice of opponent. The woman gets in close under Hella's guard, too close for her to easily use her sword, and she slashes one of her daggers against Hella's thigh. 

Without thinking about it, Adaire throws her last dagger. It hits the Dark Sun woman in the throat. 

Hella has time to nod at her before she engages with a towering man holding a sword. Adaire hops down from the tree to pull out her rapier. It's over fairly quickly after that. 

They've been traveling together long enough that clean up after a battle is nearly second nature at this point. Alyosha barely even looks queasy anymore. It's good that he's toughening up a little. 

Adaire leaves Hadrian to tend to his own and Throndir's wounds. Hella is sitting down on a tree stump, leaning heavily on her sword. Her leg is bleeding. On her way over, Adaire plucks one of the Dark Sun woman's daggers from her cold fingers, inspecting the edge. 

"This was poisoned," she says, nudging Hella in the shoulder. "I'll have to make you an antidote."

Hella rolls her head back, looking up at the dark sky. "I thought something felt weird."

"You could have told me earlier, you know." Adaire sits down on the ground, pulling out the ingredients that she'll need. Judging by the smell and color of the poison, and the fact that she knows they came from Rosemerrow, she has a good enough idea of what the antidote should be. "Is this about yesterday? Are you really that excited to make another deal with death?"

"Fuck you," Hella says. It would have more bite if she wasn't this close to slurring her words. Adaire works a little faster. 

"Look, I get it. Queen of death and all. Lem said she was beautiful."

"I'm glad I'm not the only person you interrogated about Nacre." She doesn't sound it. "Stop worrying about me."

"I'm not worrying about you," Adaire snaps. She finishes mixing the antidote and shoves it at Hella. "Drink this."

Hella does, making a face at the taste. Serves her right. Adaire busies herself inspecting the cut on Hella's thigh. "This is going to need stitches."

Hella only nods. She still has blood on her face, splatter from the dagger that Adaire threw. Adaire sets about her work, letting the routine of it calm her down. It's no good if their most powerful fighter gets herself too injured to be useful in battle. Hadrian is strong, but he doesn't have the greatest judgment in a fight. At least he supposedly has Samothes on his side. 

"Is this what you were like with Blake?" Hella asks, when Adaire is about halfway through stitching up her leg. "All mother hen?"

"What is your problem?"

"Nothing." Hella leans back on her hands. "You should write them back."

"I wouldn't know where to send the letter. And I told you, it's not like that."

Hella closes her eyes. Adaire finishes with her stitches, and works on wiping the last of the blood from Hella's skin. Hella shivers. 

"Tell me if you start feeling dizzy," Adaire says, drawing her hands back and packing up her supplies. She's getting the same trapped feeling she had during her last conversation with Blake. Like she swallowed a bird and it's trying to break out of her chest.

"Thanks," Hella says. She flashes Adaire a cocky grin, the same smile she gave her when she caught Adaire out of the air, months ago now. 

Adaire doesn't flee, exactly, but she does stage a tactical retreat.

-

The next day, Adaire seems ready to let Hella avoid her, but Hella isn't interested in avoiding anyone. When they stop for their midday meal, she finds Adaire in a clearing, sketching a map. Adaire is always finding small tasks to do. She's predictable that way. It's comforting. At least Adaire can be counted on to stay the same, even when the rest of the world feels as though it's sliding out from under Hella's feet.

Adaire doesn't greet her. Hella forces herself to start talking.

"I don’t want to see Adelaide again. I see her plenty. Sometimes I dream about her, and she tells me things, and she _smirks_ at me, and it sucks."

"Man," Adaire says, looking up, "it cannot be fun to have the personal attention of the god of death, huh." She puts aside the map she's working on before she stands up, keeping it free of any dirt. She's always so careful about things like that.

Hella closes her eyes. Adelaide doesn't laugh, but Hella can still feel the space in her mind where she wants to. "No."

"I get it." Adaire tucks her hands into the pockets of her skirt. "Your whole thing is fighting, and now you can't fight her, because she isn't actually there."

"It's not--she's just so _annoying_. That's all."

Adaire pats Hella on the shoulder. "Sure. Look, don't worry about it. She was a queen. I'm sure she can be reasoned with."

Hella blinks down at Adaire. She's doing a good impression of being earnest. Hella has never known what to do when someone is trying to comfort her. "I don't think you're going to be conning Adelaide Triste anytime soon, Adaire."

Adaire shrugs. "I'll help you out with Adelaide if you let me sew up your wounds once in awhile, okay? Sound like a deal?"

It doesn't sound much like a deal at all. Hella doesn't think Adaire has noticed. Her hand is still on Hella's shoulder. 

Hella recognizes the way her heart stilled before she made the choice to leave Calhoun to Brandish, to accept Tristero's offer, to wrap her hands around Calhoun's neck and not let go. A prelude to what might be a mistake. She's never been able to let that stop her. She does what she's always done, what's helped her survive: she doesn't think too much, and she pushes forward.

The most frustrating thing about Adaire is her tendency to plan things down to the last detail. Hella enjoys the thought that she might be ruining one of Adaire's schemes. She leans down to kiss her, cupping Adaire's cheek in one hand. That's a lesson Adaire still has to learn: strategy is one thing, but sometimes the easiest way to your goal is to cut your way straight to it. 

Adaire squeaks. It's the least calculated sound Hella has ever heard from her, and so she kisses her again, harder, sliding her hand up to tighten in Adaire's hair. 

Adaire wraps her arms around the back of Hella's neck and stands up on her toes to reach her, letting Hella support most of her weight. 

"Why are you so _tall_ ," she says, taking uneven breaths between each word. "You could help a girl out, you know."

Hella shrugs and picks her up. Adaire squeaks again, her arms still tight around Hella's neck. "That is not what I meant!"

"Don't worry," Hella says, Adaire warm in her arms. She noses in under Adaire's jaw and kisses her there. She speaks against Adaire's pulse. "I won't drop you."

-

This is a bad idea. Adaire wants Hella's trust, but trust is steady. Trust is something you can count on when the going gets rough.

 _This_ \--whatever it is she and Hella are doing in snatched moments along the road, quick glances before battle and long conversations at night--isn't steady. It's rocky like a boat. Smooth sailing one day and a storm the next. There's a reason Adaire doesn't do things like this. It causes as many problems as it solves.

Her throat feels hot when she's around Hella, and she has trouble looking at anything else. It's annoying; Adaire can barely properly assess a situation anymore. 

Throndir and Alyosha have both noticed. Adaire knows, because Throndir gave her a thumbs up over breakfast the other day, and Alyosha's smiles have turned fond and reminiscing. Hadrian hasn't, which is impressive, considering he nearly walked in on them taking a moment for themselves while scouting out ahead. He'd wanted to tell Hella that her dinner was getting cold, which he had done while Adaire was surreptitiously picking bark out of the back of her dress. Hella had stifled giggles all the way back to camp. Adaire had to resist the urge to take Hadrian aside and thank him. For making Hella laugh, if nothing else.

That's the crux of the problem, of this thorny tangle of _whatever_ that Adaire is trying to unknot. Hella makes Adaire feel soft. It's fine to fool around with someone if you both know the score. But Adaire doesn't even think she knows the score here. What she knows is that this will end badly. 

Adaire makes her living by her wits. And here she is, getting tender over Hella Varal, Queenkiller. The feeling will cut her to pieces as sharp as any sword. Somehow, when she wasn't looking, she let herself get ambushed. 

They'll make it to the tower soon, according to Adaire's map, and the quality of Hadrian's brooding over the campfire that night.

Adaire takes the first watch. She's at it for an hour, checking and rechecking the perimeter, before Hella settles a hand on her shoulder.

Adaire doesn't jump. Hella can't sneak up on her.

"Hey," she says. She puts her other hand on her sword. "I couldn't sleep."

"And you're not out torturing any more trees?"

Hella shrugs. "Guess not." Adaire nods, and brushes her loose hair behind her ears. Hella watches her do it. "Why do you always keep your hair up?" she asks.

"Habit, mostly. And it's better for a fight, obviously."

"I kept mine long, when I was younger. I braided a spiked strap in it. Made for a nasty surprise if anyone tried to grab it."

Adaire smiles. "It's hard to imagine you braiding hair."

Hella reaches down to run her fingers through Adaire's curls. Adaire leans her head to the side and lets her. "I could show you."

They end up sitting on one of the logs by the banked fire, Adaire sitting between Hella's legs as she carefully braids Adaire's hair. 

Adaire can't remember the last time someone else did her hair. It's not so bad.

"Are you using five strands?" she asks. She feels like she should be taking notes. And she needs something else to think about.

"Yeah. It's the Ordenan style, at least where I come from."

Adaire carefully doesn't ask Hella anything else about her childhood. She hands her a ribbon from around her wrist when Hella's done, so that she can tie the braid off. 

"Thanks," Adaire says, reaching back to feel it. "I don't have a mirror, but I assume it looks good."

"It does." Hella's hand is resting against the back of Adaire's neck. Adaire hadn't even noticed.

"Look, Hella--"

Hella shakes her head. Adaire can feel the movement against her back. "Let's just not talk about it, okay?" 

Adaire lets out a breath. She leans back against Hella. "That sounds good."

Together, they watch the moons' path across the sky. It's comfortable. There's nothing wrong with being comfortable, Adaire figures, as long as you know it won't last forever. She's not going to be dumb enough to make that mistake, and she knows Hella won't either.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to be about podcasts on twitter at luckydicekirby!


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